


for even the very wise cannot see all ends

by eryn_laegolas



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Canon Relationships, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Skywalkers and gardening, Stand Alone, The Author Regrets Everything, hopefully not as weird as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eryn_laegolas/pseuds/eryn_laegolas
Summary: When people think of Anakin Skywalker, they think of the Chosen One, the Hero With No Fear. They think of an accomplished duelist, of the best flyer in Hogwarts, of the prophesized savior of the wizarding world.They don’t think of gardens diligently kept or dirt under fingernails.Or: Anakin Skywalker and his legacy. Hogwarts AU.





	for even the very wise cannot see all ends

**Author's Note:**

> This is for all those who read [this Hogwarts AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737342) and wanted to know more about Anakin. It’s been a year and a half though, so I don’t know if you’re still out there – but, hey, this not quite backstory is for you.
> 
> Since this is a standalone story, you don’t need to read the other one, but it’ll make my day if you do.

When people think of Anakin Skywalker, they think of the  _Chosen One,_ the  _Hero With No Fear._ They think of an accomplished duelist, of the best flyer in Hogwarts, of the prophesied savior of the wizarding world. They don’t think of gardens diligently kept or hands buried in dirt or shrubs well tended.

Obi-Wan doesn’t blame them. Something about the thought of the wizarding world’s greatest celebrity dribbling water on flowers during his spare time is too staggering to think about.

It’s almost humanizing, the thought of dirt under fingernails and a seedling on gentle, steady hands.

People love legends. They don’t care about the man.

 

Anakin is twelve when Obi-Wan first finds him in one of the greenhouses. Under the cover of the night, Obi-Wan can hardly see him, enveloped as he is in robes so dark it’s hard to tell where the sky ended and cloth began. But it’s clear that Anakin is tending to one of the many plants there. Obi-Wan doesn’t know enough about herbology to know what it is.

It’s nearing midnight. Obi-Wan, stern professor that he is, wonders if he ought to give the boy detention.

Still, he approaches Anakin slowly, a mug of tea cold in his hands. When Anakin hears him approach, he turns, embarrassed even as he glares. It’s not an intimidating glare — he’s too young for that — but it will be one day.

Obi-Wan sits down next to him and gestures for him to continue. Anakin eyes him warily, but he doesn’t say anything as he goes back to his plant like Obi-Wan isn’t there.

They sit in silence like that for a long time, Obi-Wan sipping his tea and Anakin working on his shrub.

Anakin doesn’t trust Obi-Wan. He doesn’t trust anyone like he trusted Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan knows it’s his fault — he didn’t welcome him like Qui-Gon did, had been nothing but cold and distant when they met, and he hadn’t bothered to be anything else since.

But all of that has to change now. Qui-Gon is dead and Obi-Wan had made a promise.

He doesn’t believe Anakin is the Chosen One, but he will. He has to. Maybe Qui-Gon’s faith can be enough for all of them.

And this is how it began.

 

From the moment the Hat shouted “SLYTHERIN!” for all to hear, Obi-Wan has wondered what it is about Anakin — this young, wide-eyed Muggle-born, this boy that none but Qui-Gon believed to be the Chosen One — that could have made him into anything but Gryffindor.

It almost irritated Obi-Wan, how little concern Qui-Gon showed over the Sorting. Obi-Wan would have asked him about it, but Qui-Gon would have only told him to  _concentrate on the moment,_  if not outright accuse him of caring about his pathetic life forms.

But Obi-Wan ponders over it regardless. Surely the Hat must have known how difficult it would be for Anakin? The Slytherin archetype — cool, reserved, refined, and, admittedly, snobbish — is everything Anakin is not. It is a House of bloodpurists and elite families, and Anakin is the farthest thing from a privileged pureblood there is.

And Slytherins’ reputation aside, Anakin’s personality should have been enough. His arrogance, his daring, his recklessness make him stand out in the sea of people defined by cunning and patience and slyness.

Anakin is ambitious though. He undoubtedly has  _a certain disregard for rules._  Yet he leaps before he looks, he lacks subtlety, he prides himself on his boldness. He is too brash, too self-assured.

He knows all of this too.

Obi-Wan can see it in the way Anakin’s eyes sometimes stray to the red and gold drapings across the room. Object of the prophecy or not, Anakin is still a child. Children don’t particularly like being alone.

(Later, Obi-Wan will ask himself:

What would have become of Anakin without that loneliness? Was this where it started — all that pain, all that hatred?

He doesn’t dwell on it.)

 

It isn’t just a hobby, Obi-Wan soon learns. It’s a gift.

Anakin is talented in a lot of things. He can hold his own in a duel against those many years his senior. He can fly like it’s as natural as breathing. He can play Quidditch better than anyone Hogwarts has seen in ages. The list goes on — and everyone knows it. Anakin has never been one to shy away from showing off.

But herbology? It’s a little known gift that Anakin doesn’t seem too eager to share.

These are the moments when Anakin is at peace, more at ease than Obi-Wan has seen him be or ever will be in the years to come. There’s something about these greenhouses that brings him a quiet contentment Obi-Wan rarely glimpses when they are anywhere else, an indefinable air of calm that makes Anakin’s smiles gentle and his eyes soft.

It’s so different from the Anakin he usually sees — loud, spirited, and willful — that Obi-Wan is loath to take this serenity from him.

 

During Anakin’s first year, Qui-Gon was considered among the Hogwarts staff to be, for lack of a better term, Anakin’s personal wrangler. Despite not being Anakin’s Head of House, Qui-Gon was the one to whom the teachers and prefects turned to when Anakin got into fights. Obi-Wan never asked what Qui-Gon felt about being known as the boy’s unofficial keeper. It’s moments like this, however, when it’s clear that the faculty see him as the successor to this dubious honor, that Obi-Wan wishes he asked.

This became clear just weeks into Anakin’s second year, when he had challenged an older housemate to a duel. Obi-Wan had been so amused at Anakin’s nerve — the sheer gall this boy had, challenging someone three years his senior to a duel — that at that time he didn’t mind the inconvenience. But now it has turned into a near weekly occurrence, and at this point Obi-Wan is starting to see his free periods less as his free time and more as Anakin’s detention time.

Obi-Wan doesn’t mind it nearly as much as he thought he would, but it does exasperate him at times, even if his put-upon sighs are just for show. Usually.

“This is detention, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says monotonously. He doesn’t bother to look up from the paper he’s grading. “No magic.”

He hears rather than sees Anakin’s scowl. A second later, the candelabras and cleaning equipment floating in midair are gently replaced on the long table in front of him.

“ _Accio_   _Cloth_ ,” Anakin says sullenly, and Obi-Wan looks up just in time to see the cloth fly to Anakin’s hand.

Silently, Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. Anakin only juts his jaw in defiance, and Obi-Wan fights to keep his disapproving frown in place. When Anakin finally returns to his task, Obi-Wan allows himself a brief smile.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Anakin grumbles after a while. “Padmé said it was fine.”

“Miss Naberrie is a prefect, not a teacher,” Obi-Wan says, frowning again. “And she really should have known better than to let you go unpunished.”

“But she didn’t! She took away points!”

“You  _hexed_ another student, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says wearily. “Taking away ten points isn’t enough.”

“But they started it!” Anakin says, his voice rising angrily as he turns away, scrubbing the candelabra in his hand in huffy silence.

Obi-Wan sighs. He’s almost tempted to ask what exactly happened to put Anakin in such a petulant mood, but he knows better than to try to force him to talk.

They stay like that for a while as Obi-Wan makes his way through his students’ essays, occasionally glancing up to see the crease in Anakin’s forehead gradually grow more pronounced. By the time Obi-Wan marks the last of his papers with a flourish, Anakin is scrubbing at a particular spot rather forcefully, chuntering under his breath.

“You’re not going to remove the wax if you’re going to keep scrubbing like that,” Obi-Wan says mildly.

With a wave of his wand, he conjures a pail of hot water, and makes his way to Anakin across the table.

“You have to soften the wax if you want to get it out,” he continues, making another wave to direct the candelabras inside the pail.

Anakin’s jaw tightens as the candelabra flies from his hand. He doesn’t look up at Obi-Wan at all, his eyes seemingly fixed on something interesting on the floor.

“They hate me, you know,” Anakin mumbles suddenly, and Obi-Wan is surprised by how wounded and furious he looks at the same time. “Just because I’m not pure-blood like them. Just because I’m a — a  _Mudblood.”_

A wave of hot, prickly anger sweeps Obi-Wan’s body. “You’re _not_ , Anakin.”

“Well to them I am!” Anakin cries. “They don’t even care about — about that stupid prophecy. To them i’m just another  _filthy little Mudblood! Dirty blood!_  And — and even if that prophecy was real —”

His voice falters. The anger that flared unexpectedly ebbs away, gone as quickly as it came. He looks drained, defeated, and something stirs inside Obi-Wan’s chest.

“It doesn’t matter. No one believes it anyway. Even Windu hates me.”

“ _Professor_  Windu, Anakin,” Obi-Wan corrects him quietly. “And he doesn’t hate you.”

“He’s got a weird way of showing it,” Anakin mutters. He’s rubbing his eyes, his head down, and it takes Obi-Wan a second to realize that he’s wiping away tears. “He’s not very nice.”

“Yes, he can be rather strict, I admit,” Obi-Wan says hesitantly. “But that doesn’t mean he hates you.”

“It’s because of that prophecy, isn’t it? He doesn’t think it’s me so that’s why he’s always so — so —” Anakin turns his head away, and he grips the edges of his seat tightly. “You don’t believe it either. No one does. Only Qui-Gon.”

That  _something_  that had stirred inside Obi-Wan’s chest coils tighter now, and it isn’t fair, it isn’t  _right_ , for someone so young to look so shattered.

“But I don’t care about the prophecy really,” Anakin goes on. “I just — I just don’t want people to hate me.”

The silence stretches, echoing loudly in Obi-Wan’s ears.

More than ever, he wishes Qui-Gon were here. He would have known what to do. He would have known what to say to Anakin — this boy who, for all his bravado, has yet to learn how to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“No one hates you because of the prophecy, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says haltingly, like he isn’t sure where his words were going to lead. “Or because you’re Muggle-born —”

“But they do!”

“And those people don’t matter. They never have. You’re twice the wizard they’ll ever be, Anakin. Remember that.”

Obi-Wan hesitates, placing his hand on Anakin’s shoulder in a rare display of affection. Anakin fidgets but doesn’t brush it off.

“And . . . as for the prophecy —” Anakin stiffens, and Obi-Wan squeezes his shoulder once before withdrawing his hand. “I believe Qui-Gon saw something special in you. Maybe it  _is_  the prophecy, maybe it isn’t. All I know is that he believed you’ll do great things one day, and I’m rather inclined to agree with him.”

Anakin still refuses to look at him, but it must have been the right thing to say because his hold on his chair loosens and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. Then, before Obi-Wan can change his mind, he drops his hand on Anakin’s head and ruffles his hair. By the time Anakin reaches out to bat his hand away, Obi-Wan is already crossing to the other side of the table.

“Ten points to Slytherin,” Obi-Wan says as he settles back on his seat.

Anakin looks up then, startled. “What for?”

Obi-Wan makes a show of arranging his stack of papers. “Advanced spellwork.”

Anakin blinks and realization dawns on his face. He beams, bright and earnest, and Obi-Wan offers him a curved smile in return.

 

“Anakin, what is this?”

Anakin looks up from his homework — why the boy has decided to use his office to study and why Obi-Wan lets him, he isn’t really sure — and stares at the small potted plant Obi-Wan is holding.

“It’s a cactus,” Anakin says simply, and Obi-Wan can hear the unspoken  _duh_.

“I know that. I meant — what is it doing on my desk?”

Strangely, Anakin ducks his head, the barest hint of red staining his cheeks. “Oh, well, you should’ve just said that then.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Anakin takes a deep breath, as if he’s preparing himself for the worst. The words seem to spill out of him unwillingly.

“It’s a present. Yours. Your present. Merry Christmas.”

And this makes Obi-Wan pause.

A present? Where on earth did Anakin get that? His mother can barely afford to send him here, and nearly everything Anakin owns is second hand.

And Obi-Wan may be new to the post, but he’s fairly sure professors aren’t supposed to go around giving students presents. He isn’t supposed to, is he? It’s not like Qui-Gon ever did. Is he supposed to get Anakin one? Did Qui-Gon get him one last year?

Oh  _Merlin_ , is Anakin expecting a present from him too?

His confusion must have shown on his face because Anakin immediately starts babbling about how he got the present, how he made it himself — sort of, because it isn’t technically his, he got the seeds from the greenhouses, but he planted it and everything, and he grew one for his mom one too, it isn’t that hard, and if you don’t like it, it’s fine, really, he’ll just —

Obi-Wan is only half listening, still trying to regroup his thoughts.

“Thank you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says at last, aware he sounds as awkward as he feels. “Merry Christmas.”

It really shouldn’t be possible for such simple, stilted statements to make Anakin brighten like that. It’s like years are lifted from his shoulders, and he looks painfully young.

Suddenly, Anakin all but launches himself at Obi-Wan, trapping him in a hug. Obi-Wan should be saying something against this, but his throat feels suspiciously tight.

 

Obi-Wan buys Anakin a broom. He regrets it the moment he does.

Except . . . he doesn’t, really. Not even a little bit. Especially not when, on the first day after the Christmas holidays, he has the present delivered by owl to the Slytherin table during breakfast, and he sees the look on Anakin’s face — his surprise quickly morphing into a broad smile, his eyes shining with all the heedless enthusiasm of a puppy.

Anakin looks up at the High Table, his entire face alight with cheer, and Obi-Wan is already smiling back before he even realizes it has happened.

It’s surprisingly easy to ignore the way Mace Windu is trying to burn a hole into the back of his skull.

 

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Professor. Everyone thought I was great. Didn’t you notice all the cheering and chanting?”

“Yes, I noticed. I also noticed your needless recklessness on the field. You’re lucky you only have a broken ankle to show for it.”

“Well, I caught the Snitch, didn’t I?

“That dive could’ve killed you.”

“But it didn’t. And it was cool.”

“You can’t just keep doing things because you think they’re  _‘cool’_  —”

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Professor. It was a great game. You’re just jealous because your House didn’t win.”

“Frankly, Anakin, I couldn’t care less about who won. You need to be more careful.”

“I’ve heard this lesson before.”

“But you haven’t  _learned_  anything, Anakin.”

“I try, Professor.”

 

“Anakin, please put your feet down.”

“What for?”

“First years’ essays are not your feet cushion.”

“Well, it’s not like they’re good, anyway. I mean, look at this one — it’s like punctuation and grammar came here to die.”

“ _Anakin._ ”

“Okay,  _fine._ ”

 

“You did  _what?”_

“I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

“You broke your wand in half!”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

“A wand is a wizard’s most precious possession.”

“I know, Professor.”

“This wand is your  _life —_ ”

“Yes, Professor, I know.”

“— and you  _broke_  it.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise. It works perfectly. Look —”

“Anakin,  _no_  — !”

 

“Why do I think you’re going to be the death of me?” Obi-Wan says, with a quiet, pained frustration in his voice that only ever comes out when he’s dealing with Anakin. He can feel several of his hair strands shriveling and turning grey.

Anakin is sitting up in bed, his right arm hanging limply at his side, boneless and looking like a strange, flesh-colored rubber glove. On the other side of the hospital wing were three of his housemates, all sporting bruises and boils all over their bodies.

Obi-Wan really shouldn’t be impressed when this happens. It’ll raise questions about his blatant favoritism.

“Don’t say that, Professor,” Anakin replies seriously, and the intensity of his tone startles Obi-Wan. “You’re the closest thing I have to a father.”

Anakin seems to regret his words as soon as he says them, flinching as he quickly casts his eyes down to his deboned arm.

For his part, Obi-Wan clears his throat awkwardly. But even as he struggles to keep his face impassive, there is a fragile warmth settling inside his chest, and it makes him breathe easy, his heart lightening almost in spite of himself.

Obi-Wan takes out Anakin’s wand from his pocket, and, trying not to sound as tentative as he felt, he says, “Next time try not to lose it.”

 

“Oh yes, Anakin,  _do_  come in and make yourself at home. By all means, feel free to prop your feet up my desk. It’s not like I have lesson plans to make or exams to prepare.”

“There’s no need to be so sarcastic, sir.”

 “Of course not. Wherever did you get that idea?”

“That’s not very mature of you, Professor.”

“And you would know, wouldn’t you? Because  _you’re_  the paragon of maturity here.”

 

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs, with the sort of resignation that he knows makes him sound like an exasperated parent dealing with an exasperating child. “Not again.”

Obi-Wan frowns at Anakin’s broken right arm. He’s already lost count of the number of times it’s been injured. Anakin, at least, has the grace to look sheepish.

“At the rate you’re going, you won’t have any limbs before your turn thirty,” Obi-Wan says sternly.

“Well, I haven’t lost one yet, have I?”

“ _Yet?”_

Anakin winces. “All right, bad choice of words.”

Next to Anakin’s bed is a table piled high with sweets, flowers, and get well soon cards. It never ceases to amaze Obi-Wan how Anakin’s friends and admirers never tire of giving him gifts during every hospital wing visit. The novelty has worn off of Anakin by now, but he’s scanning the table for one item in particular — or, more accurately, one sender.

Obi-Wan finds it first — a light blue card with enchanted drawings and feminine handwriting. He plucks it from the pile and hands it to Anakin.

“From Padmé, I think,” Obi-Wan says casually. He has to smother a snort at Anakin’s failed attempt to look disinterested. Obi-Wan isn’t sure if Anakin is really trying or if he’s simply too smitten to properly hide his sloppy smile.

Obi-Wan pretends not to notice this as he opens a box of Chocolate Frog for himself. He frowns at the card — Yoda again — but eats the chocolate anyway.

“You stay in this hospital wing more than you stay in your own dorm,” Obi-Wan comments as he reaches for another sweet.

“It  _is_  brighter here than the dungeons,” Anakin shrugs, helping himself to more chocolate. “It’s your fault I’m always here, anyway.”

“ _My_  fault? How is your propensity for getting into trouble  _my_  fault?”

“Well you’re the professor, aren’t you? I’m supposed to learn from you. Clearly you’re not setting a good example.”

“I don’t get into needless fights, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says pointedly.

Anakin waves his good hand dismissively. “Details.”

“If you’d spend as much time working on controlling your temper as you do on your wit, you would never get into these messes in the first place.”

“That’s no fun.”

“Nothing in your predicament fits the definition of fun.”

“See? It’s exactly because of that attitude that you need me around,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes at the absurdity of the statement. “What would you do without me?”

“Sleep peacefully, most likely.”

 

“Can you at least  _try_ not to break this one?” Obi-Wan says gravely. Or, at least, as gravely as one can while eating ice cream. “I doubt the headmaster will let us use his Floo the next time you need a replacement.”

“It’s not like I do it on purpose,” Anakin says, twirling his new wand around his thumb. “Besides, the last one wasn’t my fault.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it was. Just stop going through wands like their parchment —”

“But I wasn’t —” Anakin stops at Obi-Wan’s glare, looking dangerously close to pouting. He puts his wand down and goes back to eating his chocolate ice cream. “Well, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do,” he says instead.

Obi-Wan thinks of the pile of ungraded essays waiting on his desk and suppresses a shudder. “Yes I do.”

“Yeah,  _paperwork_ ,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan can hear the italics in his voice. “You know what I think?”

“I think you’re going to tell me either way.”

“I think you actually  _like_  going here. It gives you a good excuse to leave the castle  _and_ have ice cream.”

“I assure you, Anakin, that these increasingly frequent trips are nothing more than an inconvenience.”

“So you’d rather be cooped up in your office, grading homework, than out here in Diagon Alley, eating ice cream?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t like to lie, so he stuffs another spoonful of vanilla ice cream in his mouth instead. Anakin takes this as an admission of defeat and grins widely, looking unreasonably smug.

“Really, Professor, you should be thanking me.”

“Are you telling me that you constantly break your wands for my benefit?”

“Well, you do love ice cream,” Anakin says solemnly, with all the gravity and seriousness such a statement deserves.

Obi-Wan is too amused to point out that Anakin has just tacitly admitted to being responsible for damaging his wands.

“I can get these from the kitchens,” he points out.

“Yeah, but they’re not as good, are they?” Anakin picks up his wand again, smiling at the blue sparks shooting from the end. “But don’t worry, Professor. I’ve got a really good feeling about this wand.”

Obi-Wan feels the opposite. He knows enough about wandlore to be wary. He’s heard of yew wands’ reputation — exceedingly rare, notorious in dueling and curses, often matched with exceptionally powerful wizards. Not to mention how volatile a phoenix feather core is.

Obi-Wan knows that this doesn’t necessarily make Anakin’s wand more dangerous than the average, but it is worrying. Anakin is temperamental enough as it is, and an equally capricious wand certainly won’t help. Who knows what mischief may come of the match one day.

_I have bad feeling about this._

Of course, Obi-Wan has enough tact to not say that particular thought aloud.

 

“You  _killed_  it.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Anakin. It’s not dead.”

“Yes it is! Look at it!”

Obi-Wan does. The plant looks fine to him, just as small and prickly as he remembers. But apparently he’s wrong, if Anakin’s loud exclamations and disapproving expression are anything to go by.

“It looks fine, Anakin.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Anakin says emphatically, shaking his head with the kind of scorn only a craftsman would have for a rank amateur.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, an action that Anakin easily ignores.

“See this?” Anakin says, pointing at the base of the cactus. “It’s brown. And the stems are soft and yellow, too. It means the roots are rotting. You’ve been overwatering it, probably.”

Obi-Wan didn’t even know it was possible to overwater cacti. He tries not to feel foolish under Anakin’s withering glare.

Anakin has his arms crossed, and he’s wearing an expression that is not unlike Obi-Wan’s own whenever he gives Anakin a particularly frustrated lecture. It’s the same look that Anakin has dubbed the  _I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed_  look, also known as the  _I-expected-better-of-you_  stare. According to Anakin, it's the one that has made many a first year wallow in shame.

“How can you be trusted with the safety and education of the Hogwarts student body when you can’t even take care of a cactus?” he says in a disturbingly accurate impression.

“I suppose I’m used to more high maintenance life forms,” Obi-Wan retorts.

Now it’s Anakin’s turn to roll his eyes before returning to his inspection of Obi-Wan’s apparently dead plant.

“I think I can fix it.”

“I thought you said it was dead.”

“Yes, but I’m good at fixing things,” Anakin says archly. He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Try not to kill it next time.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes again.

 

“This wand is your  _life_ ,” Anakin intones severely. “It is a wizard’s most precious possession.”

“This is different —”

“You must take  _care_  of it!”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says with a sigh, even as his lips quirk in amusement, “you’re the one who disarmed me out of nowhere.”

“Exactly! If I was a Dark wizard, you would be dead by now.”

“Then luckily for me, you’re not.”

“But if I was, you would still be dead.” Anakin shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You really should know better than that, Professor.  _Constant vigilance!”_

“All right, all right,” Obi-Wan says, unable to stop himself from laughing. He holds out his hand expectantly. “Now give me back my wand before I give you detention.”

Anakin snickers at the empty threat, but hands the wand over with a smirk.

 

By the time Anakin is in his fifth year, he is much the same, but his future is as vague and as uncertain as it was when he was eleven.

“Well, you could always be a herbologist,” Obi-Wan suggests when Anakin worries about O.W.L.s and careers and destinies.

Anakin scoffs, like the idea is too outlandish to even consider. “Palpatine said I’m the most gifted wizard he’s ever met — and you want me to spend the rest of my life  _gardening_?”

At any other time, Obi-Wan would have been amused at Anakin’s incredulous look, but now he feels something inside him give an odd, anxious lurch.

“The Minister told you that?” he asks.

Across the herb garden he was tending, Anakin’s face darkens.

“There’s no need to sound so surprised, Professor,” he says, lips drawn back in a snarl. “Palpatine’s not a bad man — he's a great man, who's holding the Ministry together with his bare hands —”

“By staying in office long after his term has expired. By gathering dictatorial powers—”

“The Ministry  _demanded_  that he stay! They pushed those powers on him —”

“Don't be naive. The Ministry is so intimidated they give him anything he wants!”

“You’re trying to turn me against him —”

“I never meant to imply —”

“I know exactly what you meant! Just because you don’t believe in me doesn’t mean —”

“I never said that, Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs, his mouth set in a hard line as Anakin turns away from him.

“You didn’t need to,” Anakin sneers in such a cold voice that the temperature of the room seemed to drop.

Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything. He may not be fond of the Minister, but he hadn’t meant to start an argument over politics, of all things.

Wearing his most stolid expression, he waits calmly for Anakin’s glower to fade. He’s used to this by now; today isn’t the first time he has made Anakin’s temper flare. It’s been happening more and more often lately, and Obi-Wan is beginning to feel like it’s the only thing he’s good at, deliberate or otherwise.

Minutes ticked by. For several long moments, all is quiet, but still the tension hangs in the air, so thick that Obi-Wan feels it clinging to his skin.

“You’re great at it though,” he says finally, when Anakin’s anger has drained away into something that makes him look strangely weary. ”Herbology, I mean. You could even be a professor here, if you wished it. Isn’t that what you wanted before?”

Anakin’s hands are buried in dirt and his shoulders slump with some unseen weight. His back is turned and his voice is soft and brittle when he says, “I think everyone has other plans for me.”

Obi-Wan feels a cold, unpleasant weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He wonders if he’s starting to lose him.

 

When Anakin’s mother dies, Obi-Wan isn’t there to see Anakin’s rage.

Obi-Wan isn’t there to see Anakin’s composure collapse without constraint or hesitation, without even a moment’s thought of dignity. He isn’t there to see Anakin lose control, to see Anakin at his most vulnerable. He isn’t there to see Anakin break.

Obi-Wan isn’t even there for the funeral.

But Padmé is. She is there to pull Anakin close, to hold him and tell him that everything will be all right. She is there to take Anakin’s trembling hand, to grip it tight like she would never let go.

 

On Anakin’s first night back at Hogwarts, Obi-Wan finds him sitting on the bare dirt outside one of the greenhouses.

Obi-Wan’s steps grow more hesitant as he draws near, his heart heavy with guilt. He feels like he has failed Anakin for not being there when it happened, and it is this thought that stops him altogether when he’s just a few feet away.

Seeing Anakin alone and unmoving, Obi-Wan is uneasy at the thought of approaching him further. He’ll be intruding on Anakin’s private grief, and, surely, Obi-Wan isn’t worthy of that, not after his absence when Anakin needed him.  

Before Obi-Wan can make up his mind, Anakin looks up and sees him. For a few seconds, Obi-Wan just stands there, holding a mug of tea in each hand and trying not to feel awkward. Anakin merely glares like his face isn’t streaked with tears.

At last, Obi-Wan moves to sit next to him, wordlessly handing over one of the mugs. He expects to be rebuffed, but Anakin accepts it with a look of disgust.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Anakin asks, still managing to sound revolted even with his hoarse voice.

“It’s mint tea.”

“It looks like pee.”

“Don’t worry,” Obi-Wan says, amused despite himself. “It’s better than it looks.”

Anakin looks at it, makes a face, and takes a reluctant sip. His eyebrows rise, pleasantly surprised, and Obi-Wan can’t help but feel smug.

“You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”

Anakin shrugs, but he keeps drinking.

Little can be said and done after that. Obi-Wan knows from experience how little weight words hold in times like this, so he doesn’t offer condolences nor does he mention Anakin’s mother. Instead, they sit side by side, each one lost in thought.

There is dirt on Obi-Wan’s robes and his tea is not as hot as he would like, but Anakin has stopped crying and this is all that matters.

 

“Nightmares?”

Anakin glances up from the bush he’s pruning, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The dark circles that line his dull blue eyes say enough.

He goes back to his work, but his every movement seems exaggerated, like he’s only putting on a show. Though his hands are steady and his eyes are fixed intently on the bush he's tending, it’s obvious how frustrated and distracted he is.

“It’s why I started coming here,” Anakin says after a few seconds of silence. “Qui-Gon found me the first time, but he never stopped me from coming back — even showed me a secret passage so I wouldn’t get caught. But you probably already knew that.”

There’s a heavy pause.

“It’s why you started coming here in the first place, isn’t it?”

It doesn’t sound like Anakin is expecting a reply, so Obi-Wan takes his usual seat without another word. He sips his tea without tasting it, his eyes on Anakin.

“My mother used to say —” Anakin starts suddenly, sounding young and unsure.

Obi-Wan tries to hide his surprise, to keep his face as blank as possible. It’s the first time he’s heard Anakin even mention his mother since she died. Even before that, he talked about her as little as possible to stop himself from missing her.

Anakin is quiet for so long that Obi-Wan is sure he isn’t going to say anything more. But finally Anakin lets go of his shears, his eyes on the ground.

“She would have liked it here,” he says. “We never had a garden, you know. Our house — it was practically a desert there. Nothing would have grown there even if we tried.”

“But my mother — she always wanted a garden,” he continues. “She always said that there could never be enough green in the world.” He raises his head then, his eyes looking around the greenhouse like he’s seeing it again for the first time.

“She wanted to know what it would feel like, to have something grow from the ground.” He laughs a little, and it’s a hollow, biting sound. “It’s kind of strange, isn’t it? That you have to bury something to help it grow.”

“This is where you bury life, she said. This is where everything ends.” His voice has faded to a whisper, and he takes a handful of soil, watching as it trickles through his fingers. “But it’s also where everything starts.”

Anakin falls silent, and it seems like his resolve is about to collapse at any second.

But it doesn’t. He simply turns to Obi-Wan, with glassy eyes, looking as though he has suddenly returned from somewhere far away.

“I shouldn’t have left her,” he says grimly.

“Anakin, you didn’t know —”

“I should have been there. I shouldn’t have gone here —”

“She wanted you here. Hogwarts, this world — this is your home.”

“No,” Anakin says, unexpectedly loud and firm. “This is  _your_  home. Not mine. I’m not like you, Professor. I don’t belong here —”

“You do, Anakin. You belong here. Your mother knew that.”

“And look where it got her!”   

Anakin closes his eyes and inhales deeply, looking tired and thoroughly miserable.

With a sickening jolt, Obi-Wan is struck with the realization that he has no idea what to do. He is no stranger to grief, but seeing Anakin like this, with his mingled look of rage and pain, the way his body seems to shrink in itself as he slumps forward, Obi-Wan feels incredibly helpless.  In that moment, he is uncomfortably aware of how useless he is, and his hand on Anakin’s shoulder is an almost laughable attempt at comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says softly. Sadly. “I’m sorry, Anakin. I really am.”            

When Anakin opens his eyes, his face is completely and utterly blank, so immovable that Obi-Wan flinches back and drops his hand.

“I need some time alone, Professor,” Anakin says tonelessly.

His gaze is steady, without even a flicker of emotion, and Obi-Wan feels a creeping sense of dread wash over him.

“Of course,” he replies after a moment.

But Obi-Wan doesn’t want to leave, not yet. Not when Anakin is wearing this frozen mask. It makes Obi-Wan feel perturbed and not a little hurt to be at the receiving end of Anakin’s calm, detached formality.

He hesitates, then grips Anakin’s arm and places a bottle of dark purple liquid in his hand.

“It’s a Sleeping Draught,” Obi-Wan explains. In an almost pleading tone, he adds, “Padmé brewed it.”

There’s a shadow of a smile across Anakin’s face. It’s nearly imperceptible, but Obi-Wan is relieved to see it.

“Get some rest,” he says carefully, and he leaves Anakin to his thoughts at last.

 

Behind Padmé’s quaint house, with its grand fountain and trimmed lawn, is an inconspicuous bush, hardly noticeable amid the garden’s refined elegance. The bush produces small white flowers, dainty and fragrant.

On some days, Padmé weaves those flowers in her hair and wears them like a crown fit for a queen. Other times, Anakin plays with those petals, lost in thought as a smile tugs on the corner of his lips, the picture of disbelieving adoration.

Neither of them told Obi-Wan. They don’t need to.

 

“Care about the boy, you do.”

“As I care for all my students, sir.”

“But different, young Anakin Skywalker is.”

“I suppose — he is a talented wizard. He is the Chosen One, after all. The prophecy says he was born to bring balance to magic . . .” The words trail off as Obi-Wan turns from the window and sees the headmaster’s disapproving glare.

“Grown attached to him, you have,” Yoda rebukes. Under his too-wise stare, Obi-Wan feels like he’s regressed back to his first year. “His friendship, important to you, it is. Let go of this attachment, you must.”

Obi-Wan considers denying the reproach, but dismisses it immediately with a sigh. There isn’t much the headmaster doesn’t know. Yoda  _always_  knows.

“I — yes. I admit, I have grown to care for the boy,” he admits, and Yoda’s eyes turn soft with sympathy.

“Yes. Perhaps inevitable, this was. Kept your promise to Qui-Gon, you have.” Yoda leans back on his thronelike chair, his eyes narrowing to thoughtful slits. "And the prophecy, misread it could have been."

“What do you mean by that, Professor?”

But Yoda doesn’t answer. He simply crosses his hands, his face turning grim, and Obi-Wan feels a cold, plunging sense of foreboding.

 

The nightly greenhouse visits happen less and less, until Obi-Wan can’t remember the last time he saw Anakin working elbows deep in a shrub or digging into the soil. But Obi-Wan still passes by them every night, hoping to see the familiar silhouette, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that’s always too cold by the time he gets there.

It’s on one of these nights, near the end of Anakin’s seventh year, that Obi-Wan finds him. He’s sitting down instead of working, his manner uncharacteristically withdrawn.

“You haven’t been here in a while,” Obi-Wan says as he sits next to him.

Anakin shrugs. “I’ve been busy, what with N.E.W.T.s and all.”

“Yes, of course. Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

“Well, you know me, Professor. I can handle anything,” Anakin answers with his old cocky grin, but there’s not enough sincerity in it to keep it from crumbling.

Obi-Wan tries to smile too, but it’s just as weak as Anakin’s own. “What brings you out here again?”

“I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately. I thought —” Anakin shakes his head. “I thought this place would help. It used to.”

Obi-Wan raises his mug to his lips for lack of anything to say. It seems like he never knows what to say to Anakin these days. It’s as though an invisible wall rose between them without his knowledge, Anakin on one side and Obi-Wan on the other.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do after Hogwarts,” Anakin mutters when Obi-Wan is silent for too long.

“No one ever does, not for certain,” Obi-Wan replies. He hopes it sounds reassuring. “I didn’t.”

“Well, you weren’t caught in a middle of a war.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “I thought you wanted to fight — to join the Order.”

“I do, but —” Anakin’s expression hardens. “Sometimes it feels like I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Do I?” he scoffs. “Because everyone’s making my choices for me. They call me the  _Chosen One_ ,” he says it like a curse. “But chosen for what? No one even knows for sure!”

“What brought this on? You know the prophecy doesn’t define you —”

“Tell that to the Council.”

His gaze is eerily cold, full of bitterness and resentment, and it’s this more than his words that makes Obi-Wan wince.

“Anakin —”

Obi-Wan remembers when their quiet moments weren’t the beginnings of a standoff, when everything between them wasn’t brimming with secrets and misunderstandings. He misses it with such wistful longing that it drains the fight out of him.

“The prophecy doesn’t define you,” he repeats quietly. “Not to me.”

Outside, the light is fading, and the only sound is the low murmur of rain against the glass of the greenhouse.

 

But there are still moments when everything is okay, when Obi-Wan can pretend that the war hasn’t changed them. These are the times when he admits to himself how Anakin is more than just another student —  _former_ student, Anakin reminds him, when they’re fighting side by side and throwing spells over each other’s shoulders — and how he’s like a son, a friend, a brother.

Obi-Wan doesn’t tell him these things, because — well, he doesn’t need to, so why bother?

But Padmé glances at him with something like pity in her eyes. She tells him he should, because if he says it aloud, then it’s real and no one can take it away.

And that —

That is exactly why Obi-Wan can’t.

 

When Anakin looks into the Mirror of Erised, he is twenty three. He has so many scars now, more than Obi-Wan thought he’d ever have.

There is a strange glint in his eyes when Obi-Wan asks him what he sees.

“Power,” Anakin says, and his voice echoes disturbingly in the quiet.

 

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Why do you say that, Anakin?”

“I just —” Anakin shrugs helplessly, looking away. “I don't like you going off without me like this. Look what happened last time.”

“Don't remind me,” Obi-Wan says, frowning at the thought. “But you have your own mission here, and I have enough Aurors with me for mine. I’m sure I will be able to handle the situation, even without your help.”

“Well, there's always a first time.” Anakin’s tone is light, but not enough to completely mask his worry.

Obi-Wan’s frown softens towards a smile. “The war will be over soon. Everything will come out well in the end. I'm certain of it.”

“I hope so . . .” Anakin sighs. “But you could be right. You are, sometimes. Hardly ever, but. . . .”

Obi-Wan laughs and claps Anakin on the shoulder. “Good-bye, Anakin.”

“Professor, wait.”

Anakin turns to him fully, his face clouded with so many emotions at once that Obi-Wan can’t read him.

“Professor . . .” he says tentatively, “I know I’ve . . . disappointed you. I have been arrogant and I apologize. My frustration with the Order . . . I know that none of it is your fault. But your friendship — it means everything to me.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan finds he has nothing to say as he feels his smile turn rueful.

“I haven’t been your professor in a long time.”

“I think you will always be though,” Anakin says, sounding oddly melancholic.

“You are wise and strong, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says gently. “I have taught you everything I know, and you have become a far greater wizard than I could ever hope to be.”

Anakin gives him a slightly bitter smile. “Have I?”

“You haven’t disappointed me, Anakin. You have done great things, and I am very proud of you.”

With a pang, Obi-Wan realizes that he doesn’t say those words enough. He has a sinking feeling he’ll never get another chance to.

“Well,” Anakin starts, awkward at first, and then he flashes his usual rakish grin. “You’re getting soft in your old age, aren’t you?”

Obi-Wan chuckles softly and squeezes Anakin’s arm.

“Very funny,” he says lightly, but a sad weight has settled on his chest.

Anakin laughs, lifting his hand in casual farewell as Obi-Wan releases his grip. “Good-bye, Obi-Wan.”

“Good-bye, old friend.”

As he says it, Obi-Wan can’t help but think of how oddly, inexplicably  _final_  it all feels. He knows, logically, that he will see Anakin again — there’s no reason not to. Their respective missions for the Order aren’t particularly life-threatening, and he knows that they’re both skilled enough to return unscathed, as they have many times before, and  _yet —_

Somehow it feels like he’s watching a play unfold, one steadily and quickly nearing its denouement.

Obi-Wan stands, still and silent, and watches Anakin walk away until he can no longer see him. It feels like he’s doing so for the last time.

 

When he loses Anakin, life becomes defined only by before and after. It’s rather morbid, how easy it is to designate his life into Before Anakin and After Anakin.

Before Anakin was simple. 

After Anakin is empty and hollow. It is a series of moments summarized in nothing more than failures and graveyards.

Every day is the same day, slow and monotonous. He eats, he teaches, he sleeps. Rinse, repeat.

He stops counting time in seconds and minutes and days. He stops thinking of time altogether. There’s no point in keeping track when he only ever sees it as a measure of how long ago After Anakin began.

Students come and go. Sometimes he pretends to laugh or fakes a smile or feigns content. Sometimes he doesn’t need to, but these little moments are fleeting and ephemeral. Everything else just blurs together.

After Anakin is when he doesn’t go to the greenhouses for a long time.

 

Eleven years later, Luke Skywalker asks, “You knew my father?”

So Obi-Wan tells him stories of their battles and adventures, of a war, of the end of an era.

Obi-Wan tells him about the man who became the stuff of legends. He tells him tales that don’t need embellishments so he can pretend he isn’t lying.

_He could have been an Auror._

_He could have been a professional Quidditch player._

_He could have been a herbologist._

Obi-Wan tells him all of Anakin’s could-have-beens, all the little details and moments Luke will never find in history books — the Quidditch games and detentions and broken wands and their tally of who-saved-who.

These are the stories that Obi-Wan loves best: the nights spent surrounded by greenery, the peaceful silence as steady hands made life grow, and the woman whose glowing smiles were his father’s starlight.

Luke’s eyes are shining, and Obi-Wan doesn’t tell him how the stories end.

 

Leia looks nothing like Anakin.

Her eyes, her hair, her smile — everything about her face is Padmé’s. More than that, she walks with the same easy grace, carries herself with the same air of elegance. Her mother’s charisma oozes out of her in dollops, and she has that same way of looking at people like all her attention is on them. It’s the kind of look that seemed to say  _you! you’re important!_ , so guileless and firm that people have no choice but to believe it. It’s the look of a politician, a queen, a princess.

In some ways, it’s easier with her than it is with Luke. When Obi-Wan looks at her, it’s not a ghost that he sees.

But some days are harder. For all her poise and diplomat’s charm, she has Anakin’s fire, his fervor. It’s in the stubborn set of her jaw and the fiery glint in her eyes.

That’s not to say that she can’t be subtle when she needs to be or that she can’t curb her tongue when she feels like it — because she can. These are lessons Anakin never learned.

But her world is black and white, and her anger is a tangible thing. On days when she’s drawing out her wand after a failed parley or throwing one scathing retort after another, it’s never more obvious that Leia is every bit her father’s daughter.

Anakin had stood on a precipe and fell. Obi-Wan doesn’t know if Leia will jump or soar.

Maybe this is why when Obi-Wan lets go of Anakin’s wand, he lets it fall to Luke’s waiting hands.

 _Your father wanted you to have this when you were old enough_.

It will be safe with Luke, Obi-Wan thinks, because this is the child with Padmé’s heart and gentleness and warmth.

 

Obi-Wan had a portrait of Anakin once, though it was never really his. It had been a gift to Anakin from one of his many admirers, a woman whose family he had saved on a mission for the Order.

Anakin had insisted on putting it in Obi-Wan’s office, mostly as a joke, but also because he didn’t know what to do with the thing. It stayed there until the day Obi-Wan finally returned to his office, after Padmé and the twins and Yoda’s exile and —

Obi-Wan took one look at it and  _raged._  He screamed and he sobbed and he cried —  _I have failed you you were the Chosen One you were my brother Anakin I loved you_

And the portrait just stared at him, looked at him with sad eyes, and it wasn’t right, not at all, because Anakin would never have looked at him like that. Anakin would have fought back, would have shouted just as loud, would have —

Obi-Wan couldn’t bear to look at it after that. It’s hidden somewhere in the castle now, and he doesn’t want to know where.

 

Obi-Wan doesn’t care for gardens or plants, but he takes Luke to the greenhouses anyway. He kneels on the ground and buries gloveless hands into the loam, like Anakin used to years ago.

“This is where everything ends,” he says in his storyteller voice, the one that makes Luke’s eyes go wide in anticipation and awe, “but it’s also where everything starts.”

He tells Luke how Anakin used to work, shows him the plants his father tended and the ones he loved best.

“You bury life to help it grow,” Obi-Wan says, because those were Anakin’s words too.

Luke’s hands are steady when he cups a seedling in his palm. His eyebrows furrow as he scrutinizes it like he has never seen anything like it before.

“But then you can’t see it,” he says, looking up at Obi-Wan. “How do you know it will grow?”

“You care for it. You watch over it,” Obi-Wan replies patiently. “And you need hope.”

Luke buries the seedling in an empty patch of soil, a bemused expression on his face. “Hope?”

Obi-Wan casts a heating charm on his tea and hums thoughtfully before answering.

“You can water it every day, you can help it see sunlight. You can give it everything it needs — but you’ll never be truly sure if it’s enough.”

Obi-Wan thinks of inside jokes and crooked grins and flippant laughter. He thinks of unspoken truths whispered in the quiet, in exasperated lectures and teasing statements laden with meaning.

He thinks of Anakin’s fire and the way it blazed until there was nothing left of him to burn.

“There’s no way to know for certain how things will end,” he says, sounding as old and as tired as he feels. “So you hope. Sometimes it’s all you have.”

Obi-Wan looks down and finds Anakin’s eyes staring back at him.

“Sometimes it’s what makes life grow.”

 

There is a small potted plant on Obi-Wan’s desk. He’s gotten better at taking care of it over the years, but he cares about plants as little as he always has.

It hurts to look at sometimes. There are days when he can’t even glance at it, much less touch it, and he’ll sit on his desk and work and pretend that it isn’t there.

Sometimes he contemplates throwing it away or just hurling it out the window to save himself the trouble. He thinks of giving it to Luke, who carries his father’s wand like it has always belonged in his hand.

Some nights, when the memories are too much and the thoughts of what-ifs and should-haves haunt him in his sleep, Obi-Wan is tempted to. But when he’s close enough, when he’s standing behind his desk and about to reach out, he can’t bring himself to go through with it.

Because if he does, he’ll have nothing left of Anakin. Nothing but his nightmares and memories of a half-forgotten past.

On these nights, he stares at this little cactus and remembers. He tells himself he isn’t raising a dead man’s son like a pig for slaughter.

And so the plant stays.

 

“What do you see, Luke?”

Luke doesn’t tear his gaze away from the Mirror, so captivated by the reflection that Obi-Wan doesn't know if he’ll answer. His hands are pressed flat against the glass as though he’s hoping to fall right through it.

When he finally turns around, the earnest look on his face makes Obi-Wan’s chest twinge painfully. It’s the feeling that used to stir inside him every time he saw that same fragile expression on that near identical face.

It’s all so distressingly familiar that for a moment Obi-Wan can pretend that two decades haven’t passed. He hates himself for it, for fervently wishing that he was sitting next to a different blond blue-eyed boy.

“I see my family,” Luke says, sounding content and happy and melancholic all at once.

Inside the Mirror, Anakin is smiling at them, more serene than Obi-Wan has ever seen him. His hand is against the glass, against Luke’s, and he looks inexplicably  _real_ , like he’s about to step out of the frame at any moment.

“Me too,” Obi-Wan says. He places his hand on Luke’s shoulder and ushers him out of the room.

The door closes behind them with a resounding thud, and Obi-Wan doesn’t look back.

 

(Later, Luke will ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

And so Obi-Wan will tell him through swirling silver-white memories, because it is his last piece to tell. This is a tragedy after all, and tragedies aren’t complete without a tragic end.

When Luke rises up out of the Pensieve, he will sit on the carpeted floor for several long moments, gazing at his father’s yew wand, with its polished sheen that seems almost taunting.

“There is still good in him,” he will say, and it sounds like a promise, his too-old eyes burning bright with hope. There will be none to hear him, except for an old man’s portrait across the room, wondering if this hope is bright enough for them both.)

 

Seasons pass and years turn into decades. Luke is now the one who goes to the greenhouses every night, the one who delves his steady fingers in the ground and holds life in the palm of his hands.

Leia keeps a portrait in her office and tries to remember how to forgive.

 

“Uncle Luke?”

“Yes?”

“Do you — do you think Mom and Dad are mad? That I’m not in Gryffindor like they are?”

“Why would you ask that? It doesn’t matter to them. It never has.”

“Are you sure? Because — because everyone says that it  _does._  Everyone else is in the same House as their parents, so why . . . why am I different?”

“Ben, I promise you, your parents don’t care about your House —”

“Then why. . . .”

“Ben?”

“Dad’s disappointed with me, isn’t he?”

“Ben, he’s —”

“Never mind. It’s stupid. I — I’ll just go —”

“Ben, wait —”

 

“You’re worried about him.”

Leia pauses and then looks up from the letter she’s writing. Across the circular room, Luke is standing by the window, his back to her.

Sighing, Leia puts her quill down and stands from her desk.

“There’s too much Vader in him,” she says, staring determinedly out the window. She can see the Quidditch stadium in the distance. Han and Ben are out there right now, hopefully flying like they had planned and not fighting — she’s far too busy to be dealing with squabbles over something like Quidditch.

“But our father — he wasn’t Vader, in the end.”

Leia’s jaw clenches. The family she knew — the father who carried her in his arms, the mother who sang her lullabies to sleep — had burned in front of her. They had screamed and screamed and screamed until there was nothing left to bury. Vader had only stood behind her and watched.

She can still hear their echoes when she closes her eyes, and some nights she screams along with them.

“But how many had to die before he got there?” she snaps.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Luke wince like he’s been stung. “Leia, Ben wouldn’t —”

And Leia winces too, her anger crawling away to hide behind her shame. What kind of mother would even think of comparing her prepubescent son to a monster?

“I know, I know,” Leia sighs again. “I’m sorry, I just —”

She glances at Anakin Skywalker’s portrait and is relieved to find it empty. It always is, whenever Vader is mentioned, and she feels slightly guilty for driving him away again. Ben Kenobi just stares at them understandingly and bows before leaving his portrait to give them some privacy.

“You worry too much,” Luke says with that teasing lilt he used often in their youth.

Leia rolls her eyes. “Someone has to. You and Han — you don’t worry enough.”

“We do though. Han especially.” His eyes soften. On anyone else, Leia would have interpreted the look on his face as pity and not genuine concern. “He loves you. He loves Ben.”

She’s rather tempted to roll her eyes again, because she knows that already.  _Of course_  she knows that.

Leia will be the first to admit that she doesn’t believe in a lot of things, not in deities or destiny or the innate goodness of people. She isn’t like Luke, who trusts too much and sees shades of grey when there are none. She doesn’t have much faith in anything beyond the causes she clings to.

But among the few things that she does believe in, the one thing she doesn’t doubt, is Han. She  _knows_  Han loves her and their son — that isn’t the source of her worry and it never has been.

“Do you think that’s enough?” she asks. It sounds weary and worn, like the words have been said before and repeated time and again.

Luke doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, Leia fights the urge to tell him off for being unhelpful.

“Do you remember when Ben got his first broom?”

Age has given her brother wisdom, but also an irksomely roundabout way of imparting it. Still, Leia decides to humor him and nods.

“Of course I remember,” she says. “He kept asking for it for months.”

“So Han got him one.”

Leia shakes her head, scoffing at the reminder. “I told him not to. Ben was only seven. It was too dangerous.”

“But Ben was terrified, remember? When Han brought it home, Ben wouldn’t even stay in the same room with it.”

Despite her initial reluctance, Leia finds herself listening intently. It’s not new information, but Luke has a way of speaking that makes people want to listen. His voice has a soothing quality to it, not because it’s deep or velvety, but because he speaks with a pensive cadence that lingers on every word.

“And Han —” Luke stops, and Leia feels the weight of his gaze on the back of her head. “To be honest, I thought he would just return the thing.”

“But he didn’t,” Leia says softly, lost in reminiscence.

“No, he didn’t,” he repeats. She can hear the sad smile in his voice. “He took Ben to that spot where we used to play Quidditch. The one near the tree you loved.”

Luke slowly moves away from the window as he continues, “He brought the broom with them, but they didn’t use it. Or at least I’m pretty sure they didn’t. But I know that they just sat there, under that tree, and just . . . talked. About Quidditch. About flying. About all the things you miss when you’re on the ground. About how different everything looks when you’re up there.”  

Leia turns around then, but he’s not looking at her anymore. Luke’s eyes are staring at something on the carpet without seeing it, as absorbed in the story as she is.

“I was coming to visit you that day. They didn’t hear me pass, but I heard Han talking.” He makes a soft sound and shakes his head, smiling to himself. “I never knew Han was such a good storyteller. The way he talked — it was like I was riding a broom for the first time. The feeling you get when you’re up there in the sky —”

He chuckles a little, his eyes twinkling. “Ben was so enthralled. I had never seen them look so happy.”

“You wouldn’t stop grinning when you told me,” Leia says, and the memory makes her smile. “They were gone for hours.”

Luke lifts his gaze to her. “And when they got back,” he says with unmistakable awe, “Ben wasn’t afraid of flying anymore.”

Silence descends, and it seems to have a volume of its own as Luke’s words are left hanging in the air. Their smiles dwindle slowly and simultaneously, and the events of the day after replays in their minds without their meaning to.

After Han’s stories, Ben had wanted to try again, and he went at it with renewed vigor. Han had needed little convincing and they had gone out again the next day. Neither had spoken when they came back a few hours later, but Leia didn’t need a full account to guess at what had happened.

Han had confided in her later that evening though. Without much prompting, he told her in low dejected whispers how Ben had lost his temper when he couldn’t control his broom. It had spiraled downward from there. Han had been at a loss, as he tended to be when Ben got into one of his moods, and he had found himself repeatedly saying and doing the wrong thing.

Han had told her all this with a look of open vulnerability she rarely got to see. It was the one he wore when he first told her he loved her, when he was convinced he was going to lose her, when he thought he was a bad father.

Leia had held Han in her arms all the while, kissing all the creases on his forehead away as she tried to hold back her tears.

They had told Luke everything. Luke, who was and is privy to all the details of their domestic drama, had offered to teach Ben to fly, and Han hadn’t hesitated when he agreed.

But Han and Ben’s relationship isn’t always strained. They have moments of quiet affection that Leia knows they both treasure. Whenever they go on their bonding excursions, as Leia likes to call them, they almost always return in good spirits, and it’ll last them for days before the next inevitable fallout.

Even with all that though, Leia knows Han hasn’t forgiven himself for how he handled that particular episode. Knowing her husband, he probably never will. Han and Ben still go flying together once in a while, but Han never offers to teach their son any new tricks or moves, and Ben never asks.

Luke’s hand is on her shoulder and Leia almost starts when she notices it. Absently, she wonders how long they’ve been standing there in brooding silence.

“No, it’s not,” Luke answers her at last. His eyes are kind and understanding, looking so much like Ben Kenobi that it’s unsettling rather than comforting.

Leia gives a short, mirthless laugh. “It never is.”

 

Ben asks a lot of questions about his grandfather.

It’s no secret that this troubles Leia. Even Han has been affected by her apprehension.

Luke supposes this makes him a terrible brother, since he’s doing nothing to dissuade Ben. If anything, he’s inadvertently encouraging his nephew. All Ben asks for are stories, and Luke is happy to oblige him. It’s only natural to be curious, especially when one is related to someone so celebrated in the wizarding world.

But Luke isn’t blind. He knows Ben’s questions about Anakin Skywalker will inevitably lead to his finding out about Darth Vader. Leia isn’t ready for that, and Luke isn’t sure if she will ever be.

It’s her prerogative, certainly, and Luke won’t interfere with that, but he knows what it’s like. He understands why Ben won’t stop asking.

Luke knows better than most what it’s like to long for some sort of history or heritage. His childhood had been characterized with an all-consuming desire to  _know._  He would have given anything for even just a shred of information about his parents. This yearning had only gotten worse when he came to Hogwarts — everyone knew who his father was, while Luke himself knew so little.

It was why he had clung to Old Ben so fiercely. His professor had been the only connection he had to his father and the only one willing to share the past his Aunt and Uncle had tried to shield him from.

What Leia doesn’t understand is that the more she denies Ben what he wants, the more he’ll slip away from her. It had happened with Luke and the Lars, and he didn’t want the same for Ben.

So Luke tells Ben what he wants to know. He retells Obi-Wan’s stories and, when that isn’t enough, he takes Ben to his namesake’s portrait. It’s the closest they’ll ever get to a first hand account.

But never his father’s portrait. Never the memories in the Pensive. Even Luke knows better than that, and Ben knows better than to push.

At the very least, Luke has learned to appreciate Obi-Wan’s spiel about stories being told  _from a certain point of view._

 

Maybe Luke should have known that he was bound to take Ben to the greenhouses eventually, but it isn’t exactly something he had planned from the start. Luke never thought he would need to, and yet here they are. He’s not sure Leia would approve.

But Luke follows Obi-Wan’s footsteps anyway, if only because he’s growing increasingly worried about his nephew.

There’s something almost desperate about Ben’s desire to know about his grandfather. But Luke has already told and retold all there is to tell about Anakin Skywalker. It isn’t enough for Ben, Luke knows, but there’s only so much he can give before they cross uncharted territories.

The path to the greenhouses is familiar, and Luke moves steadily through the greenery. Ben trails a few steps behind him, his steps hesitant and uncertain.

Ben’s hands, too, are unsteady. They seem to shake as he presses them against the dirt. But he is a resolute student and Luke is a patient teacher. Between the two of them, they plant seedlings, trim hedges and vines, and water his father’s favorite gardens. By the end of it, Ben is smiling, more relaxed and composed than he has been of late, and his disposition is infectious.

It feels natural to echo Obi-Wan’s words to Ben, those cryptic, tried-and-true lessons he used to give Luke during their greenhouse visits.

“Obi-Wan said your grandfather could have been a herbologist once,” Luke says lightly, watching Ben work. “That’s how much he loved it out here.”

Ben’s eyebrows draw together in thought. “Do you think I can be, too? I mean, not just the herbologist thing, but — well . . . do you think I can be like him? Like Grandfather.”

Luke keeps his face neutral as he mulls over his words. Not for the first time, a feeling of unease gnaws at him, one that he is finding progressively harder to ignore.

“Your grandfather left a legacy that’s hard to live up to,” he says, eyeing Ben carefully.

“Yeah, but you did it. You and Mom.”

“I suppose we did, didn’t we?”

Ben scowls. “Dad was right. You never get straight to the point.”

This gets a genuine laugh from Luke. “It looks like you don’t have much patience for my dramatics either. Just like your father.”

The scowl etches itself a little deeper before Ben smooths it away. “But can I, Uncle? Do you think I can be like Grandfather?”

Luke sobers quickly, but forces himself to hang on to the smile before it can peter out into a grimace. “You know you don’t have to, Ben. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“I know that, but I just —” Ben’s face closes off again and Luke’s uneasiness grows. “Do you think I can?”

It’s odd, how Ben can keep his face so blank yet still sound like the child that he is.

“Your grandfather wasn’t a perfect man,” Luke says with a strained nonchalance that makes him inwardly cringe. “There are some things about him that aren't worth emulating.”

Ben clearly doesn’t believe him, but it breaks his mask and makes his brows knit together again. “The good parts of him then. His flying, the Quidditch games, his dueling — even this. . . . Do you think I can be as great as he was?”

“If you’re willing to work hard for it, then yes, certainly.”

Ben’s grin is bright and childlike, and Luke wishes Leia and Han were there to see it. His unease fades away, leaving a familiar yet welcomed warmth in its place.

Though their good moods have returned, a large part of Luke suddenly wishes Ben had chosen a different grandparent to imitate. His grandmother, maybe. Or Bail Organa.

Merlin knows it’ll help them all sleep at night.

 

“Leia, don’t you think it’s time —”

“No.”

“He needs to know. We can’t keep lying to him forever —”

“ _No_ , Luke. We can’t tell him. He’s too young. He’s not ready —”

“Who isn’t ready, Leia? Ben or you?”

“I —”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I — I can’t, Luke . . . I just can’t.”

“But you’re losing him, Leia.”

“I know. . . . Sometimes I feel like I already have.”

 

Ben Solo has made a habit of staring at Anakin Skywalker’s portrait when he thinks no one can see. It’s not his grandfather, not really, but he thinks of the mystery of the man all the same.

When he looks up at it, he thinks of prophecies and fate and power. He thinks of the legends and of the man behind them — son, friend, father, villain, savior. Which legacy holds precedence over the others?

(Does Luke know? Does his mother know? Does anyone know?)

He wonders what it would be like to place his feet inside old worn shoes and walk on footprints many times followed.

They walked the same halls once, wore the same green and silver tie. Ben wonders if this is enough.

(Years and years later, when there’s too much blood on his hands to wash off, he thinks of the power of names, of the wand that should be his, of ever changing destinies.

When Kylo Ren thinks of Anakin Skywalker, he doesn’t think of heroes or chosen ones or redemption.

He doesn’t even think of  _grandfather_.)

 

Luke has spent his entire life running. More than once he has teetered in between  _forward_ and  _away_ , and for so long he has chosen the former. He has always found something to run towards to.

Isn’t it strange that he’s now suddenly doing the reverse?

Perhaps he was always meant to. Obi-Wan ran away, Yoda ran away. And now so has he.

He runs away from Hogwarts — from Leia and Han and Ben, from everything he’s ever known. He only stops when he knows it’s too far to turn back.

(Leia would have said,  _you’re never too far to turn back_ , but he is drowning in a wave of guilt and he wants to prove her wrong.)

There is not enough soil on this island for him to plant as much as he would like. Too much stone and saltwater, he thinks, and the patches of fertile earth in between are already covered in grass, weeds, and trees.

Still, he makes do. After all, he has all the time in the world now.

In spite of himself, he thinks of Leia when he plants a Flutterby bush outside his shabby little house. It’s her favorite thing from Hogwarts’ greenhouses, and since their first year, Luke had made a point of checking to see if the flowers were in bloom.

He wonders if his father had liked them too.

Luke thinks of this when he kneels on the ground, knees pressed into the soil and grass. Wet dirt clings to his robes, but he can’t find it in himself to care as he buries his hands in the earth. He doesn’t wear his gloves, wanting the feel of dirt under his nails like when he did it before (when he did it with Obi-Wan, with Ben, with the thought of his father).

He’s so old now. He has made life grow from the ground up more times than he can count.

It will never be as much as the number of lives he buries.

 _He could have been a herbologist once,_ Obi-Wan had told him a lifetime ago, the same way he had told Luke of all his father’s could-have-beens,  _but he didn’t follow that path._

 _He could have been a herbologist once,_  Luke had told Ben, when he was old enough to understand.  _So could you._

Ben didn’t follow that path either.

 

(Rey’s hands are pale, small, and dainty-looking at a glance.

But Luke can tell, as he hovers over her and watches her bury them calmly in the soil, that her hands are far too calloused for her age, just as her eyes are too jaded and her smiles too uncertain.

There is dirt under her fingernails and the hems of her robes are soiled, yet she hums a soft tune to herself as she plants, her hands calm and steady.

She eyes him warily when Luke kneels on the ground beside her. He gives her a small smile and follows the familiar tune as he helps press mulch on the base of the small tree.

“You’re very good at this,” Luke says. “Have you ever considered making a career out of it?”

Rey pauses and considers this, like she isn’t eleven years old and too young to be thinking about the future.

“Maybe,” she says, and goes back to her work.)

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the lines in the story are paraphrased from and/or inspired by the ROTS and AOTC novelizations - namely, Yoda's scene, the argument about Palpatine, Anakin and Obi-Wan's goodbyes, the parts with "you haven't learned anything" and "this ~~lightsaber~~ wand is your life", and the idea of Anakin doing an Obi-Wan impression. 
> 
> So what do you guys think? And where would you have sorted Anakin? I know there are arguments for Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, but Slytherin fits him best for this AU. I think Anakin would have been a Hatstall and his sorting would depend on the context of the story. But what are your thoughts?


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